The River of Souls

As Matthew, Quinn and the three runaways made their slow progress toward the river, Magnus found himself pushing through the woods beside Griffin Royce. He had reloaded the pistol and kept it in his grip, and he thought that if he really was walking with Sarah’s killer—and it seemed to him so, according to Matthew, Granny Pegg’s story and the cruel ease with which Royce had executed Gunn—then he would stay alert for a musket to be trained on himself, as Royce must realize Magnus shared Matthew’s knowledge. Even so, Magnus couldn’t help but throw the man a little rope with which he might further fashion his own noose.

“Sarah was my friend,” Magnus said, as they moved through the underbrush. Still the smoke pursued them, curling and writhing in the air like the vengeful souls that supposedly haunted this realm. Burning trees crackled at their backs. “I can’t believe she was doin’ anythin’ in that barn but helpin’ Abram learn to read,” he went on, when Royce failed to respond.

“Little you know,” Royce said tersely.

“You ever go into the barn and see for yourself?”

“Muldoon, I don’t want to talk to you, understand?” The hard green eyes took Magnus in and then dismissed him. “That thing out here…and my friend dead, by my hand. Can’t even get his body back for a Christian burial. I don’t want to talk, hear me?”

“I hear,” Magnus replied, pushing a branch out of his face with an elbow as he moved forward, “but still…doesn’t make sense that Abram killed her. Why would he? Like Matthew said…it’s unproven.”

“Gunn saw him standin’ over her body with the knife in his hand. Seems like everybody’s forgettin’ that.”

“Not forgettin’ it,” Magnus pressed on, “it’s just that…seein’ him standin’ over her with a knife is not seein’ him use the knife. He might’ve just picked it up when he came out of the—”

“Muldoon,” said Royce, and the musket’s barrel swung a few more inches toward the black-bearded mountain. Royce’s face was reddening and was further blotched by insect bites. “The black skin ran. If he wasn’t guilty of murder, then why would he run? Why would his blood have stepped in to help him?”

“Too scared to think straight, maybe.”

“Scared of what, if he hadn’t killed Sarah? But tell me this, Muldoon…if he didn’t kill her, who did? Corbett have any ideas about that? And what’s all this about somethin’ he found on her body? What was he doin’, pokin’ around on that girl’s body?”

“Mrs. Kincannon gave him permit,” said Magnus calmly. “And yes, he did find somethin’ of interest.”

“What might that have been?”

“Best he tell you himself—or show you—when we get back.”

Stamper, in the lead just ahead, suddenly called out, “Hold up!” and the others paused. “Here’s where we left Corbett and the girl,” he announced. “Wait a minute…looky here! We’ve got a new trail! Somebody’s draggin’ a leg. Damn me if it don’t look like…three men walkin’ close together. Side-by-side, looks to be. Bovie, you see this?”

“I see it,” Bovie said. “Headin’ toward the river.”

“Three men?” Royce moved forward, past Barrows, to get a look at the wide trail of broken brush. He was no woodsman, but even he could follow a trail this obvious. “The skins? Got Corbett and headin’ back? Why would that be?”

“Don’t know,” said Stamper. “Maybe he talked ’em into givin’ themselves up.”

Magnus took note of Royce’s sudden silence. Royce stared at the ground, as if reading his future in the crushed earth.

“We’ll find out further on,” Stamper said. “Let’s keep movin’, and everybody keep a sharp eye out. No offense meant, Barrows.”

“None taken,” said the other man. “I just want out of this damned hell and back to my wife.” He looked over his shoulder, through the gray smoke, at the fire that was following them and spreading out to burn a wider path. From the heart of the flames a dry wind blew, sending ashes and embers flying and making the fires jump from tree to tree. They had already seen animals—more deer, rabbits and two good-sized brown panthers—fleeing the oncoming conflagration.

They went on at a faster pace, their advance made easier by the trail that had already been broken before them. After another thirty minutes the ground began to become swampy again, indicating the river was near. Gray pools of water stood here and there under the massive gnarled oaks and weeping willow trees, as smoke from the fire behind them coiled in the branches.

“Bootprints over here!” Stamper said, motioning to the prints in the mud. “Five people. One lamed, for sure. Can’t be more than a half-mile ahead.”

“I’ve been holdin’ my guts,” said Bovie, with a pained expression. “I’ve gotta take a shit!” He put down his sword and musket, opened his trousers, pushed them down to his ankles and squatted. “Ahhhh!” he said. “Oh my Christ, what a—”

He let loose a scream that might have been heard in Charles Town, and suddenly he was scrambling through the mud with his trousers still down. “Somethin’ bit me!” he shouted. “Got me on the balls!”

Magnus saw the ugly brown snake writhing away into the high weeds from where Bovie had rudely disturbed its place of rest. Water moccasin, he thought. Bovie had seen it too, and now he struggled to his feet and pulled his trousers up and looked at Stamper with a fear-blanched face. “Bastard bit me, Stamper! It ain’t a poison one though, is it? Say it ain’t a poison one!”

“Cottonmouth,” said Royce, before Stamper could say otherwise.

“Wasn’t no cottonmouth!” Bovie shouted angrily. “It was a black snake, wasn’t no cottonmouth!”

There was a moment of silence, and then Stamper said, “We ought to be movin’ on.”

“It was a black snake!” Bovie insisted. “Got me on the damned balls, but I’ll be all right. I’ll be all right, won’t I, Stamper?”

“Let’s keep movin’,” Stamper replied, and he went on.

“I’m feelin’ all right!” Bovie’s eyes were too wide and too glassy. “Stings a little bit, that’s all!” He retrieved his weapons and started after Stamper, with Barrows following, then Royce and Magnus. “I’m gonna be fine!” he announced to the others, with a crooked grin. “Laugh about it when we get back!”

Magnus thought that there was nothing funny about being bitten on the balls by a venomous cottonmouth, and even now the poison was moving in Bovie’s blood. But he said nothing else, and he kept his head down and watched where he stepped because there might be nests of the things in here somewhere.

“You ever know anybody got bit on the balls by a black snake?” Bovie asked, his question aimed at anyone who might answer. “Damn me, if that won’t make a story to earn me a drink or two! Stings a little bit. Nothin’ bad.”

They continued to follow the bootprints, as the swamp deepened and the pools of gray water spread. The smoke was following them, floating through the brush and hanging from the trees. “Hot in here!” Bovie said. “Damn, I’m sweatin’. My balls are swole up, Stamper! God A’mighty, that black snake got me good!”

“Yep, must’ve,” said Stamper, staring straight ahead.

“I’m all right, though,” Bovie said. “You boys gettin’ tired? I ain’t tired. Nossir. And I ain’t afraid of that thing, either. Devil panther or whatever it is, I’ll stand up to it! You believe in the devil, Stamper?”

“I do, Caleb.”

“I believe there’s a devil and an angel in every man,” Bovie went on, his face, hair and brown beard damp with sweat. “They’re fightin’ in you all the time, tryin’ to win you over. Sometimes I can feel ’em fightin’ in me. Pullin’ me this way, and pullin’ me that. They’re whisperin’ in your ear, and they’re slidin’ in and out of your head. You feel that way, Stamper?”

“Yep.”

“My balls are kinda hurtin’. Maybe I need to stop for a minute and get a breath.”

“Keep goin’,” Royce insisted. “We can’t stop for a dead man.”

“What was that?” Bovie asked. “What’d he say, Stamper?”

“He said, we can’t stop right now.”

“All right, then.” Bovie’s voice had weakened. “All right,” he said again, as if he wasn’t sure he’d spoken it the first time.

They hadn’t gone on but a few more minutes when Caleb Bovie said, “I can’t hardly breathe, all of a sudden. Damn this smoke…I can’t hardly breathe.” He dropped his sword to run a trembling hand across his face and he left the sword behind, lying in the mud. “I’m feelin’ like I need to rest, Stamper. My legs are ’bout to give out. I don’t know…I’m feelin’ poorly.”

“We’re not stoppin’,” said Royce.

“Yes,” Stamper said, with a hard glare at the other man. “We are stoppin’. Caleb, sit yourself down for a few minutes and rest.”

“No!” Royce got up in Stamper’s face, his green eyes aflame. “The skins are just ahead! You said so yourself! We’ve got to stop ’em!”

“Stop ’em?” Stamper’s eyebrows went up. “Why, Griff? If they’re headin’ back to the Green Sea, why would we want to stop ’em?”

“We don’t know they’re headin’ there! Could be they’re tryin’ to cross the river and cut south! You think they’re goin’ back to give themselves up? Hell, no!”

Bovie was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, his musket leaning beside him. He had begun to shake, as if freezing cold in this swamp’s heat. Magnus approached him, walking at the edge of what looked to be an expanse of black, grainy mud. Stamper noted his progress and called out, “Muldoon! Careful! You’re walkin’ close to a quicksand pit!”

Magnus abruptly stopped where he was. He knelt on the ground a few feet away from Bovie, who had started to rock himself back and forth, his face gray and his eyes fixed on a limitless distance.

“I’m changin’ my ways when I get home,” said Bovie, speaking to all and none. “Goin’ to church every Sabbath. Doin’ what I ought to do. I swear it.” He realized Magnus was kneeling near him, and he turned bloodshot eyes upon the hermit. “I’m cold,” he said, shivering. “Ain’t you cold, too?”

“A mite,” said Magnus.

“Knew it wasn’t just me. My gut’s hurtin’ bad.” Pain was beginning to show in Bovie’s face. He clenched his hands over his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut. “Hurtin’ bad…oh mercy…mercy on me…”

“We ought to leave him,” was Royce’s pronouncement. “Wastin’ time, waitin’ for—”

“Shut your mouth,” said Stamper. The way he said it made Royce’s mouth close in a tight, thin line. Stamper walked over and stood near the dying man, and Barrows came nearer as well. Royce took a long look at the others, and then he placed his musket against his shoulder and walked over to stand beside Magnus. Royce stared off into the swamp, toward the river and the path of footprints leading to it.

“Stamper,” Bovie rasped, his eyes open now, watery and red-rimmed, and he looked pleadingly up at the other man. “Can you help me get home? I can stand up and walk. Swear to God I can.”

“You just stay where you are. Just rest a bit.”

“I’m hurtin’, Stamper. All over. I think I…I need to stand up.” Bovie tried, and when he got up halfway he let loose an agonized cry and fell to his knees. He stayed there, his hands still gripped to his belly, his face now taking on a bluish tinge. Foam was gathering in the corners of his mouth. He began to blink rapidly, his breathing loud and harsh. “Oh Christ,” he whispered, his voice choked with pain. “Save me…please…save me…”

Magnus started to get up off his knees. When he began to stand up, he was struck from behind by Griffin Royce, who swung the butt of his musket hard against the back of Magnus’ skull.

Magnus staggered and dropped both his torch and the pistol. Fireballs exploded in his brain, and he pitched sideways into the quicksand pit.

Stamper looked dumbly at Royce, his mouth hanging open. He therefore saw Royce take a step forward, cock the musket, aim its barrel at his head and pull the trigger. Through the burst of blue smoke the lead ball hit him just under the left eye. Stamper’s head rocked back, the hat with its raven’s feather went flying, and he fell backward into the mud as if pole-axed.

Royce already had drawn his knife. He walked two paces through the roiling smoke to where Barrows was standing in shocked disbelief, and without hesitation drove the blade downward into the hollow of the man’s throat. Barrows had no time to get his musket up for a shot or draw his pistol; he lifted his left arm, the fingers clawing at the bandages on Royce’s right forearm. Royce twisted the blade, the thin smile of a true predator warping his mouth. With a blood-choked gasp Barrows tore free and turned to run, but Royce was quickly upon him. His teeth gritted and red whorls in his cheeks, Royce drove the blade into the man’s back once…twice…four more times with the force of uncontrolled rage, until Barrows’ knees gave way and he fell on his face, the white stone of an eye pressed into the mud.

Royce stepped back to view his work, the breath hot in his lungs and his blood singing in the afterglow of violence. Magnus was a prisoner of the quicksand, Stamper was stretched out and Barrows done for. Bovie had pitched forward on his hands and knees, trembling and retching. “God help me,” he gasped, beginning to sob. “Oh Christ Jesus…help me…”

Royce had no more time to waste. He replaced his knife in its sheath and helped himself to Bovie’s musket, which he knew to be still loaded after the encounter with the buck. He picked up Magnus’ pistol, also still loaded, and slid that into the waist of his breeches. He would reload his own weapon later, he decided, when he got nearer the skins and Corbett. He had plenty of powder and shot in his ammunition bag. Who to shoot first would be the question. He put his own musket under his arm, held the other one in his left hand and then picked up Stamper’s torch where it lay guttering in the mud.

Bovie fell on his side and began to curl up, crying and moaning. Royce stood over Bovie for a few seconds more, his eyes narrowed with disgust at this scene of human weakness. In a voice loud enough for Bovie to hear, Royce said, “Cottonmouth.” Then he turned away from the stricken man and hurried on after his prey.